Masquerade
by ferain1832
Summary: Only rarely does Enjolras allows himself to be persuaded to go to a masquerade. When he does, meeting mysterious secret admirers is the least of his priorities.
1. Chapter 1

The back room of the Café Musain was unusually empty, a perfect opportunity for Enjolras to finish those letters to the Courgourde d'Aix and his German correspondent. Not that he came to the Musain to work, whenever he was truly occupied he stayed at home; instead he was looking for the pleasant experience of working with his friends' laughter and conversation in the background.

He would have to wait for Combeferre, at the very least, Enjolras thought, putting his signature on the first letter. Although he knew German well enough to maintain a written conversation, he frequently made grammatical errors that Combeferre seemed to have a deep satisfaction in finding and then gently pointing them out. He would have to humour Combeferre once more - the revolution could not be undermined by a weakness in grammar.

The door opened suddenly, so sharply that it hit the opposite wall, which Enjolras knew without looking up was a mark of Courfeyrac's exuberant entrance.

"Enjolras, _mon cher_," Courfeyrac called out, pulling up a chair, "I was hoping to find you here."

"As was I."

"What have you here?"

And for several minutes Courfeyrac dedicated himself to examining Enjolras's papers. Then -

"Say, Enjolras," he began, with a suspiciously sweet smile, "what are your plans for the next two weeks?"

"I'm busy," Enjolras said, mentally reviewing his schedule. "On two nights we are going to the faubourgs, you, me and Combeferre, I hope you haven't forgotten that?"

"Of course I haven't!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. "I even had to make amends to my mistress since I won't be there on her birthday night. Revolution comes first, though of course I did not say that to her."

"How did you make amends?" Enjolras said absently, wishing Combeferre was at hand so he could ask him the future perfect conjugation of _befehlen._

"Well," Courfeyrac smirked, "it involved a charming new bonnet and something else that I'm not sure you'd want to know about. Anyway, the other days?"

"I have to meet that Englishman who insists on calling me Mr Enjoelrass," Enjolras said. "His French is atrocious and his ideals rather weak, yet I have faith that he will improve on both counts."

"The poor man tries."

"Oh, I care little for the way he talks, so long as he talks ideological sense, which he doesn't very often do," Enjolras said, now conflicted over the right way to spell _entscheidend_. "Still, his sentiment is sound and his views vaguely republican. He will improve."

"In any case," Courfeyrac said, leaning back in his chair with another sweet smile, "I am convinced that you could spare a few hours next Saturday night."

"What for?"

"One of my very good female friends is hosting a party," Courfeyrac said carefully, awaiting his reaction. "A ball, to be precise. A costume ball, to be more precise. A masquerade, essentially."

"So?"

"So I thought that we must all come. Including yourself, that is."

Enjolras lay down his pen with a sigh. "Courfeyrac, what will I do at a masquerade?"

"Enjoy yourself?"

"How?"

"Well, you know," Courfeyrac said, gesticulating vaguely, "dance, enjoy the atmosphere, talk to charming ladies, or if you don't want that, there is this young man I know from lectures. He looks promising, we might very well want to lure him into our cause."

"I can't lure anyone anywhere in such an environment," Enjolras said. "He will think that I am a fool, as is our cause."

"You could lure anyone anywhere in any environment, I assure you," Courfeyrac smirked. "But well, did I forget to mention that Combeferre is coming?"

"He is?"

"Oh yes."

"How on earth did you persuade him?"

Courfeyrac brought down the chair with a hearty _thump_ and smiled mysteriously. "The same way as I will now persuade you."

"And how is that?"

"I told him you are coming."

Enjolras sighed. He could not let Combeferre down.

"It seems you are always one step ahead of me," he said with resignation.

It wouldn't be a total waste of time, surely? Courfeyrac would be delighted and he loved making Courfeyrac delighted. There was something wonderfully heartwarming about it. Then, he could always find a nice quiet corner and compose that article or think of how to maximise their ammunition supply. If an evening in the Musain did not distract him, neither will this.

"Fine, I will come."

"Wonderful!" Courfeyrac cried, throwing himself on his neck and kissing him on both cheeks. "Then, come, we need to design a costume for you! Ah, it'll be delightful! I've been waiting for this for half a decade!"


	2. Chapter 2

"Well," Enjolras said, inclining his head critically, "all things considered, this is the least foolish outfit you could have proposed."

"I never propose anything foolish," Courfeyrac pouted. "You'd have looked stunning as an angel, magnificent as Alexander and simply heart-stealing as some medieval damsel in distress."

"Why would I let you dress me up as a woman?"

"Why wouldn't you?" Courfeyrac said with an earnest smile. "Think of the fun we'd have curling your hair into ringlets. It would be even more of a work of art than it already is."

"Anyway," Enjolras hurried to cut him off, "this one will do. Let's get on with it."

"Then, undress," Courfeyrac cried. "Everything, even the underwear. It comes with your costume. Oh, don't just stand there! Here, let me - "

And Enjolras stood patiently as Courfeyrac undid his cravat then proceeded to unbutton his shirt, resembling a comet more than a man.

"Where are the others?" he asked, assuring Courfeyrac with a sign that he was perfectly capable of taking off his own trousers.

"Getting ready," Courfeyrac said. "Joly is helping Bossuet, Prouvaire is in raptures over Bahorel, Feuilly I've equipped earlier this morning, Combeferre will be coming here any moment, the poor man needs help."

Enjolras stifled a smile. "What will he be?"

"Galileo, of course!"

"Perfect."

"With a beard. I insist on the beard."

Now Enjolras couldn't resist laughing. "Combeferre with a beard?"

"And a telescope!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear. "Now, hurry up, put this on, we'll have to be finished with you by the time he's here. Nothing elaborate here, thank heavens."

Enjolras complied, putting on the various items of clothing that luckily did not look too far away from what he would normally wear.

"No, not the cravat!" Courfeyrac cried, snatching it from him. "Leave that to me. You can't tie your own properly, let alone this complicated knot. Saint-Just was a fashionable young man and you can't even tell a Gordian from a Mathematical."

"The Revolution does not depend on the correct tying of cravats," Enjolras retorted.

"An innovative man must be innovative in everything," Courfeyrac drew out, adjusting his waistcoat. "I could look at the way a man ties his cravat and I could tell you straight off whether he is a rogue or a decent fellow. Now, just hold still while I put some rouge on you."

"But - "

"No buts. With cheekbones such as yours, it is a crime not to accentuate them."

In the evening, after Combeferre had done his time in the hands of Courfeyrac, they stood together in front of the mirror and examined themselves.

Enjolras was rather pleased. He had always wondered, at the back of his mind, what he would look like as a member of the Convention. Now, in his bright red waistcoat, cutaway black tailcoat and an intricately tied white cravat, he could fit right in at a Jacobin gathering. The only thing missing was the wig, which Enjolras refused to wear. Never once was Saint-Just painted wearing a wig.

Combeferre, by his side, looked a little more extravagant. It was the beard that did it, the rest of the costume was rather discreet - a black doublet with a wide Puritan collar, spotlessly white, then black breeches and tall riding boots.

"Tell me again why we are doing this?" Combeferre whispered in his ear.

"To watch Courfeyrac have the time of his life," Enjolras murmured back. "Besides, you look pretty good. I think black suits you."

"I look ridiculous. Why did I ever let him put on this beard?"

"It's not that bad," Enjolras tried to reassure him, fighting to suppress a smile. "It's just a bit…"

"Stupid?"

"Excessively black is the word I was about to use." Enjolras cast another look over himself and sighed. "I still disagree with the political implications of wearing _culottes_. A dedicated patriot such as Saint-Just would not have - "

"It shows off your thighs and calves," Courfeyrac called out from another room where he was putting on his own costume. "Honestly, Enjolras, good looks are wasted on you. What do you care about being the most beautiful thing to ever walk this planet? You ought to give your beauty to some poor cad who'd love to look even a fraction like you!"

Enjolras sighed and reached out for Rousseau. Courfeyrac had given him the _Confessions_ as an accessory. To be perfectly frank, this would have been more appropriate for Robespierre, but Enjolras was not about to complain.

He was already at Rousseau exhausting La Tribu's library when Courfeyrac emerged, or rather, what he supposed was Courfeyrac.

He was wearing a normal-looking set of clothes, consisting of dark trousers, a wine-coloured velvet waistcoat and an immaculately white shirt. The normality ended there, because a large silken cape, black on the outside, wine red on the lining, was thrown around his shoulders, rustling like a thousand mice in the loft. His gloves were spattered with what looked like blood and his face was very pale, with overly accentuated red lips. A glistening top hat and a black cloth mask around the eyes completed the look.

"Fear me, mortals," Courfeyrac hissed, approaching slowly.

Then all of a sudden he pounced on Enjolras, throwing him off his chair so they both flew onto the floor, then proceeded to suck vigorously at his throat. His teeth seemed somehow… longer than they were meant to be. When at last he disentangled himself from Courfeyrac, cape and all, he realised that two of his teeth have somehow become fangs.

"You go too far, Courfeyrac," Combeferre remarked, helping them both up. "I am sure that Saint-Just did not have love bites."

"I'm sure he did," Courfeyrac said with a grin that was slightly distorted by the fangs. "He couldn't have been all ice."

Enjolras got up, rubbing his neck, and hurried to retrieve the Rousseau, now lying crumpled on the floor.

"This is no laughing matter," he said, attempting in vain to remain serious himself. "The great _philosophe_ deserves more respect than to be thrown in the corner by vampires."

"He said nothing about their equality," Courfeyrac retorted, swishing his cape. "What say you, _citoyen_? Do the vampire race not deserve equal standing to the human one? Are we not to be free?"

"Well, of course," Enjolras began, "being citizens of this country they too must benefit from the rights given by the constitution, though naturally if they continue to bite innocent countrymen in this manner, I fear they will have to be punished according to the judgement of a people's tribunal."

"We should go," Combeferre said, looking at them both with amusement.


	3. Chapter 3

The whole affair turned out much as Enjolras had expected. Rather too many women, rustling skirts, glitter, perfume and high pitched laughter, too much mystery and intrigue to have a normal conversation, luckily enough quiet corners to read Rousseau in peace.

The rest seemed to enjoy themselves very much. Courfeyrac soon disappeared with a woman dressed as the Lady of Shallot that Enjolras presumed was his mistress. Combeferre cheered up after taking off the beard and putting it into his pocket, then engaging in deep philosophical conversation with a Molière.

Joly and Bossuet being Hippocrates and Banquo from Macbeth ("Is there anyone unluckier than this poor man?" Bossuet had laughed), made a peculiar pair waltzing down the hall, sometimes figuratively, sometimes literally. Feuilly, cutting a very mysterious figure dressed all in black, surprised Enjolras by starting some heated conversation with a wealthy-looking young Anne Boleyn. Prouvaire looked much like himself, only more conventionally dressed, being Shelley, and was insisting that dried flowers would definitely improve Bahorel's costume of Blackbeard.

This made Enjolras think of Grantaire.

He has expected him to be with Joly and Bossuet or Bahorel like usual, yet they came alone. When he inquired, Joly said that Grantaire would be late and Courfeyrac confirmed this with a somewhat intriguing grin.

So now he was sitting on a balcony, Rousseau in hand, having by this point reached his arrival at Chambery, relishing the absence of women that for some reason paid him explicit attention, when he heard approaching steps.

Enjolras had long since taken off the mask - it impeded reading - and now he thought that Courfeyrac would be displeased.

The figure, however, wasn't Courfeyrac's vampire but something Greek, with a long tunic, a plumed helmet covering most of the face, an elaborate shield in one hand, a spear in another. Achilles, perhaps, Enjolras caught himself wondering, then went back to his book.

The Achilles didn't disappear but lingered around him, trailing the spear rather awkwardly. At last he spoke:

"Monsieur Enjolras?"

Enjolras looked up. "Indeed," he said. "Have we met?"

There was something very familiar about the figure and the voice in particular, only the words were spoken in a low whisper that Enjolras couldn't quite place. He looked closer but the covered face and the Greek attire put him off the trail.

"We have," the man said, still in the same whisper, stepping closer.

"Then…?"

"I'd rather you guessed."

"Well, I don't know," Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. "You'd better take off that helmet and we'll talk face to face."

"That wouldn't do."

"Why not?"

The man seemed to ignore the question. "You must have a lot of people like myself. Only, I bet none of them has ever done something as stupid as what I'm doing right now."

"And what is that?"

"Revealing myself."

Enjolras sighed. He was beginning to tire a little of this masquerade business. "As what?"

"As your secret admirer."

Enjolras could resist a smile. "If you admire my ideas, I am very glad of it and would like it all the more if you dropped this mystery and we talked properly." Was it perhaps that potential new recruit Courfeyrac mentioned?

"It's not your ideas I admire," the man said gently. "It's yourself."

Enjolras frowned. "How can you admire me without my ideas?"

"Easily. I can disagree with you tenfold, yet relish the way you phrase it. I don't have to believe in your ideas to admire your belief. I don't have to love your views to…"

"Well," Enjolras said, shifting uncomfortably, "I thank you for your admiration."

"Wait!"

"Is there anything else you would like to say?"

"Yes," the man whispered. The helmet was unchanging in its in expression but the mouth and the voice cried desperation. "But no."

All this was making his head hurt. "Surely you wanted something?"

"I do."

"What is it then?"

The man sat down on the same chair that Enjolras had been occupying minutes earlier. Confused as Enjolras was, the dejection in every line of his body was evident.

"Isn't there something?" Enjolras repeated, stepping closer.

"I don't know," the man murmured, so quietly that Enjolras had difficulty picking the words out above the rustle of the wind. "I don't know. I wish I knew. I wish you knew."

"Knew what?"

"What to give me. You are just as confused about me as I am about you."

Those last words, true as they were, gave Enjolras a sudden jolt. In one quick movement, he knelt by the man and took off the helmet.

It was Grantaire.

For a moment, they sat in silence, Grantaire looking down at him for once but with the familiar imploring expression that he saw each time he reprimanded him for something, Enjolras motionless on the floor, trying to take in what he has just witnessed.

"You don't have to be secret," he said at last. "Admiration is not a crime nor a privilege."

"Not when the object doesn't want it."

After another long pause, Enjolras spoke once more.

"It is never enough to admire. Be the change you want to see in the world."

"I tried."

Enjolras suddenly decided to take his hand. The surprise mixed with bliss that this caused was quite beyond him. "You did try," he said, "and I appreciate it."


End file.
